


Before Words: Language Hands and Language Eyes

by WarriorOmen



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Communicating without words, Fluff, M/M, No Dialogue, Pre-Movie, Sensual Descriptions, Somewhat Poetic Maybe, descriptions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:02:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26262364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarriorOmen/pseuds/WarriorOmen
Summary: Before they had words, they had hands and expressions. Before they had words, they had long gazes; of anger and hurt, of confusion and sadness, of lust and love. Before they had words, they had connection, a unification brought out in battle, and cemented in love.---Yusuf and Nicolò's oldest language is non-spoken, but that doesn't mean a lot cannot be said otherwise.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 18
Kudos: 138





	Before Words: Language Hands and Language Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> This is slightly different than what I would normally write. It's entirely done in narrative, descriptions and reflections. I am a little bit obsessed with the idea of how Joe and NIcky spent a fair amount of time together unable to talk to each other. And it's something I've been wanting to write out for a bit but was unsure of the correct format, so to speak. I am horribly unpoetic, but after two attempts in a general style, I decided to go out on a limb and try this.
> 
> Whether it works or not, is up to the reader.
> 
> Self Beta'd.
> 
> Feel free to yell at me on [Tumblr](https://coffeebeannate.tumblr.com/)

_**Before they had words, they had hands and expressions. Before they had words, they had long gazes; of anger and hurt, of confusion and sadness, of lust and love. Before they had words, they had connection, a unification brought out in battle, and cemented in love.** _

Hands were their first language.

Hands were their blades. Stabbing, pushing, slicing, piercing, shoving, tearing, lunging, thrusting.

Hands were how they tore at one another. Strangling, grasping, yanking, pulling, shoving, pushing, throwing, tossing, clawing.

Hands were how they stopped. How they waved, lifted, grasped, tugged, pulled. Drew in.

Hands were gestures. Waving, drawing, pointing, suggesting. Showing. Teaching. Knowing.

Expressions were their second language.

Expressions were mouths. Snarling, coiling, drawing, biting, sneering.

Expressions were eyes. Watering, glassy, intense, searching, scanning, calculating.

Expressions were mouths. Smiling, quirking, lip biting, teasing.

Expressions were eyes. Shining, radiating, joyful, seeking, appraising. Loving.

Together, the two merged, unified, spoke, understood.

Neither know for sure how the transition happens. How hands go from gesturing out of necessity, of anger, of hurt. To shoving at each other in annoyance, in distress. Confusion when they cannot say so.

 _Why us!? Why with YOU!?_ Yusuf’s eyes plead. Clawing into a dirty, ripped tunic, pushing the other man into sand and screaming with no words. Words are too useless, there’s no point.

 _You tell me! I have no answer to give!_ Nicolò panics. Shoving back, kicking, pushing. _Get off me. I have nothing for you._

Hands that grip short daggers. Hands that slice into palms. Mouths that scream to the sky when those cuts heal in seconds, leaving no answers, no resolutions, no understanding.

Eyes that soften. That harden. Eyes that pop open in the dark to scan, only to find Yusuf staring straight back, sword hilt in hand, watching sand and man alike. A threat. A promise of recompense should this curse fade.

Hands that find food. That try to share. Hands that slowly extend towards Nicolò in question. _Will you bite me? Will you attack a very hand that feeds you?_

Fingers that brush with the exchange. Heat that radiates confusingly down spines. Nicolò quick to blame it on the sun, not that he ever says so aloud. He could, perhaps. It is unlikely he’d be understood.

Eyes that go faintly glossy despite this, eyes that search Nicolò’s face. Dark, wide eyes full of apprehension, concern. Pity?

Hands that slowly work into hair. Hands that finally meet bare skin when they can bathe again. A safe, respectable distance from one another. Eyes so carefully averted. Hands that find unmarred skin.

Ears that hear both grunt and quietly cry, skin unblemished. Their shared curse an intense, radiating thing that has gripped them both. Ears that hear the waters movement. Nicolò the first from the waters. _Away, away. Get me away._

Of course, there is nowhere to go.

Yusuf has strong hands. Slightly calloused, rough, skin soft in places, harder than others. Weathered. Delicate when they grip at writing implements, or knives, solid and secure around a blade.

Nicolò had smoother hands. Less time around a blade, or outside. Pale, even when burnt by the sun, they heal so fast. His grip on writing implements is a heavy thing. His grip against a blade secure, but fluid.

In time, they come to learn the feel of another’s hands well. Nicolò jumps, the first time Yusuf touches him with the flat palm of his hand, fingers curling into his wrist. He pulls back quickly, but Nicolò feels his fingers like a warm brand for days to come.

Eyes that watch each other as they draw symbols in sand, in dirt. Trying desperately to find a spoken language they can share. Nicolò is quick to frustrate, Yusuf an unending and patient teacher, despite his own reservations.

Yusuf’s voice is beautiful like this. Soft. Reflective. Retrospect. Nicolò is in a daze as he listens. Absorbs. Passion a soft, low thing that curls around words like a hug, before bringing them back to the world smoother, gentler.

Nicolò stumbles, stutters. He’s a learned man, but Yusuf is too, and the words feel acidic on his tongue. Rough. Such a beautiful language shredded and burnt by his crumbling pronunciations.

Eyes watch more. Eyes scan in the baths that they take. Their bodies starting to migrate, as if on their own will, closer to each other.

Yusuf catches on first, His eyes snap up from where he’s moved to scoop water into his hair, Nicolò’s face sharp, intense. Yusuf scanned, open, exposed.

Nicolò means to turn, Yusuf stops him, a raised hand, a single motion. _Stop. Do not turn away. Look, look your fill. You think I cannot feel your eyes? Your hands when they hover; seconds from touching? Be brave. Look at me._

Those hands reach out, but now, they reach out when they’re both looking. Curious, intimidated. Yusuf stretching, grasping, pulling. Fingers that dig into Nicolò’s wrist and refuse to release, challenge in his eyes, thudding in his heart.

They’re cold, Nicolò’s fingers. From air and water.

Yusuf does not flinch. Goose-flesh prickles, stings. Caresses.

When Nicolo’s fingers splay to the center of his chest, he cries.

Perhaps that’s too be expected.

Hands slowly mix with words. Tentative, slow. Easy. Patient.

Nicolò struggles so hard with a sentence, impatience and frustration and failure turns his face into an ugly, marred thing. Yusuf tuts, pressing a single warmed finger to his lips that startles, silences and encourages.

He says the sentence himself, again, slow, sure, moving the pad of his thumb against soft lips, no sun chapping able to stay for too long, showing Nicolò how to work his mouth against the word. How to enunciate. How to treat the word like a friend, not an enemy.

Nicolò’s hesitation a sure thing, his words stumble, melting against Yusuf’s thumb. Beautiful, held. Intense.

Sleep becomes a shared activity. Bedrolls that inch closer and closer. Nicolò’s hands find his back, one cloudy night, rubbing, soothing. Pushing a nightmare Yusuf did not even realize he was having away.

Hands caress at night. Yusuf’s eyes plead, wanting, desiring. Nicolò shudders, brings fingers to Yusuf’s wrist, to the ties against his tunic, to instruct where it is no longer further needed.

Hands that work, that splay, that touch. That embody. That explore. That draw forth quiet hitches. Widening eyes, curious, assured. Content.

Hands that move to his own, now, stumbling, trembling, breaking. Clasped. Yusuf guides, assures, promises.

Lips that meet. Warm, wet, silky. Teeth that bump, infuriate. Block. Mouths that figure it out regardless, shifting, accepting, finding. Discovering.

Those hands that lace, that thread. That pet, that stroke, that touch, that pinch and flex.

Hot. Solid.

Wide. Open. Narrow. Taut.

So warm.

Eyes that water, that spark, that flutter.

Mouths that twitch, that fall, that open and close.

Voices that yell, that shout, that cry.

Hands that grasp, and bodies that fall.

Beings that know, men that realize. That feel, that love. That can touch, can see, can gesture. Can pet. Can soothe, can explain. Souls that met, that unified, that share their hearts. Their souls. Their breaths.

Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Days. Weeks. Months. Years.

Centuries.

Joe’s voice is beautiful. Deep, smooth. Honey soaked and silky.

Nicky’s is intense. Soft, sharp. Solid and serene.

Hands that turn, that check, that comfort. Excite. Adore. Hands that have killed. That have helped. That have taught. Hands that have imprints on every inch of the globe. Hands that meet in the dark, in pleasure and in agony.

Eyes that meet. That weep, that glisten. That radiate. Eyes that know each other, inside, outside. Eyes that convey. That have seen the world shift. Have seen it come into being, that have their partner memorized. Eyes of memories, of knowledge and passion.

Bodies and souls that say,

_**I love you. My heart.** _

_**Even before words could ever say.** _

**Author's Note:**

> I just really love them, okay.
> 
> I love their story, and I love that there are so many elements to work with. So much history. So much to delve into. And as I said in the beginning note, I thought that for a fic like this, a 'different style' was sort of needed for the short story I wanted to explore, and for the idea I had bouncing around in my head. I don't think it'll be a style that suits everyone, but I had fun writing it.
> 
> Hope you had fun reading! Thanks for joining me!


End file.
